Back into the ice cream shop. La Terca Negra por favor. Outside the drums have awoken, dark, brooding, tribal. The Dimonis march off to elsewhere, breathing room.
A dark beer for white clad demons. A touch thin, for all that treacle. At home, it would be a fire and baffies. In the plaça, it’s heat and noise. It works.
Drink up, the drums are approaching. Too strong to neck without consequences. No time for slow contemplation. Sparks fly.
The children and their bangers are gone. The “adults” have taken on over. Clad like they’re off to a G8 riot, soaked in water. Dancing under the relentless cascade of golden fire. Dancing to the beat of the Demonis and the drums.
Emboldened by dark beer, come an kids. Closer, sparks flying, ears ringing. The finale, fire raining down all round the plaça. Kids, adults, all cowering in corners, brushing burning embers from clothing.
Still the drums beat.